


Blackbird Fly

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Implied Bagginshield, Implied Tauriel/Kili (sort of not really), Temporary Character Death, implied Durincest, tags will be updated as fic progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A noble lineage ends that fateful day on Ravenshill, and all will mourn their passing. But out of the blood and snow and terror walks a dark figure that will cast a shadow far greater than the line of Durin. </p><p> </p><p>  <em> ". . . It tells of a trickster with wild hair and bright eyes, with arrows that never miss. . . The stories name him Blackbird, because of his dark visage and mischievous nature, and all who travel the roads leave out a portion of their dinner as an offering . . . they say he cannot die . . ." </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbird Fly

**Author's Note:**

> _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
>  Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
> All your life  
> You were only waiting for this moment to arise.  
> Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
> Take these sunken eyes and learn to see  
> All your life  
> You were only waiting for this moment to be free.  
> Blackbird fly Blackbird fly  
> Into the light of the dark black night.  
> Blackbird fly Blackbird fly  
> Into the light of the dark black night.  
> Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
> Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
> All your life  
> You were only waiting for this moment to arise  
> You were only waiting for this moment to arise  
> You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

 

The very skies mourned the day the line of Durin ended.  A misting rain drizzled out of the sky, grey with ash and death and it turned the churned earth and blood of the battlefield into a thick mud.  The ravens wheeled overhead, screaming of death on the hilltop, death in the valley, blood in the water.  The living picked through the bodies, hoping, and yet _dreading_ the sight of a familiar face.  

A hobbit sat shell shocked and dry eyed at the side of his fallen king, his hands folded neatly in his lap to disguise their shaking.  He knew Thorin wasn’t coming back. He did. That did not stop him from watching the blue lips for any hint of breath or quiver, for it was ever in his nature to hope.

The crown prince Fili lay alone and broken on the cold earth at the base of the tower, golden hair turned dark with his own blood. His limbs grew stiff and cold, beard gently moving in the breeze over Ravenhill. His last moments had been watching in paralyzed horror as his One, his brother, let madness creep into his dark eyes as he sought revenge - and death.  

Not very far away from his brother’s corpse lay the limp form of Kili, the younger prince, the beardless one.  He, too, lay alone, his skin white as snow and his hair intermingled with the trampled earth under his head. He had fallen in his berserker rage, not succumbing until nearly all of his blood had left his body.  

And thus the last of Durin’s sons fell in what was later known as The Battle of Five Armies.

.

That is where the story ends, mostly. Perhaps a brief description of the majesty of the stone tombs is added onto the end, or an tale of the ferocity of King Dain, but there is no more to tell of Thorin, Fili, and Kili - except, perhaps, to mourn them.

But even as the legend of the great Thorin Oakenshield and his quest for Erebor ends, another is born.  It tells of a trickster with wild hair and bright eyes, with arrows that never miss.  The travelers who talk of him say he never shows his face but for his bright black eyes, and that he moves like a cat, silent, quick, and graceful. They say he loves children.  They say he cannot die.

There are whispers of elves and conspiracies, aye, (because who ever saw a dwarf of that height?), but the stories all agree that he is a protective being, whatever he may be. The stories name him Blackbird, because of his dark visage and mischievous nature, and all who travel the roads leave out a portion of their dinner as an offering.

This is the Legend of Blackbird, and also the story of the man who called himself that.  So sit down, friend, and make yourself comfortable, for this is a side of the tales not known by many, and it may take me a long while to tell them.  

And this is all true of course.

He told me himself.

 

 . . .

 

To begin with, let me dispel a few common misconceptions.  Blackbird is no god, nor is he a spirit.  He is not a man, or an elf, or even a dwarrow, although the last one comes the closest.  He is a mixing of two races, rather, and both elvish and dwarrow blood runs in his veins.

He is not immortal.  Blackbird can be killed, although it is very difficult - now more than ever, though I will not say why. Many have tried.  Many have met their deaths by his hand.

The last, and perhaps the most important thing I will tell you is also the most common mistake people make.  They think that because he keeps them safe, he must be kind and benevolent.

He is not kind.

Blackbird is a mad, capricious being. He is filled with guilt and anger, most of which is directed at himself.  He has killed more orcs than most men see in an entire lifetime of battle, and has single handedly wiped out the entire line of Azog the Defiler.

They say he will go after Sauron himself, someday.  

In order for you to understand, however, I must take you back to that awful bloody, muddy, terror-filled day, back to the Battle of Five Armies.  This time, we must direct our gaze past Ravenshill, past where the cooling corpses of King Thorin and his nephews lie.  Let us look instead upon a horse riding hard towards the North and the Dunedain, bearing two riders upon its back.  

The smaller of the two is limp across the front of the other, head cradled against the taller redhead’s shoulder, held firm by one strong arm. His dark clothes are stained even darker by blood.  Even as they pound towards safety, his cracked, bloodstained lips spread in a gruesome smile.  Manic laughter trails behind the horse like the elf’s blood red tresses, and she hisses at him to shut up, to save his breath.

“You must live,” she whispers desperately, “live to fight another day.  You cannot take your revenge if you are dead!”

His giggles grow ever louder at that until his ruined chest is heaving and a fresh bit of blood trickles down his chin. “If. . . I am dead?” He wheezes, still chuckling with a terrible light in his eyes. “My dear Tauriel . . . my heart was left on that mountain. I am already dead.”  And with that, Kili fainted, head dropping forward. Tauriel only urges the horse faster, praying they make it to the rangers before it is too late.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too cringy. I haven't written anything in years, and never anything in this particular fandom, but the rabid plot bunnies got to me. I needed this fic something fierce, and no one else seemed to be writing it, so here I am! Really, I'm not a writer - art is what I'm passionate about - so this is going to be something a lil out of the box 4 me.
> 
>  **Constructive criticism is going to make or break this story** , because I honestly have no idea what I'm doing and don't have a beta. Even just leaving a ":)" or a "<3" in the comments would be....amazing. 
> 
> This story will be under heavy editing as it progresses. My writing will improve as I go, and I don't the leave the beginning as bad as I think it is.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> Thanks for reading this far, pal.


End file.
